Skip to content When I reached the door, the scratching stopped. Then came three soft knocks. Weak. Slow. Almost lifeless. I stood there, my hand hovering near the handle, unable to open it but unable to walk away. âMomâŠâ the voice whispered again, but this time it wasnât coming from the phoneâit was right outside the door. Close enough to feel. Close enough to believe. For one moment, I wanted to open it more than anything, to believe the impossibleâthat somehow my son had returned.
But something shifted. Something small, almost unnoticeable, yet enough to break through the grief. The voice changed slightlyâstill his, but not entirely. âWhy wonât you open the door?â it asked, and the scratching returned, sharper now, more urgent. Thatâs when I knew. Whatever was out there knew my son. It knew his voice, his memories, even the words that would reach me. But it wasnât him. Fear finally overpowered longing, and I slowly stepped back from the door.
The sounds stopped instantly. Silence filled the house as if nothing had ever happened. The call ended. By morning, there was no signâno scratches, no missed calls, nothing to prove it was real. But I know what I heard, and I know what I felt. Some things canât be explained, only remembered. And one truth has stayed with me since that night: no matter how much it hurts⊠some doors should never be opened.